I'm going to take a few liberties with the next few chapters. I really need to drag it out (the good times) to make up for the not-so-great times that followed.
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Looking back, nearly fourteen years ago, I remember that day with stark, breathless clarity. It was the final Wednesday in January, and I woke up even earlier than normal because I knew that Chris and I would be spending most of the day together.
I wore what, to me, was a revealing outfit. The little black skirt hugged my ass and thighs, the shortest thing other than shorts that I owned. To top it off, I wore a thin gauge short-sleeve sweater in a shade of blue just darker than his eyes.
After arriving on campus, I scribbled more about Bitsy and Stuart—at that time intended to be a spicy romance, not BDSM-charged erotica—and waited, my throat dry, parched.
Even the Dr. Pepper I sipped, another thing that we shared in common, did nothing to quench my thirst.
As he sidled up to the table, also sipping a Dr. Pepper, Chris smiled crookedly. "Great minds," he started to say, trailing off.
"And all that," I finished with a chuckle. He slid into the seat across from mine at that little speckled Formica table, and took the opportunity to study me.
Although we had never actually touched, I felt his visual caress, much as a sculptor would give his masterpiece. I gulped and found myself making a lame joke to cover up the awkwardness.
He laughed, more out of politeness probably (yet when had politeness ever stopped him?), more heartily than the quip warranted. Then, he cleared his throat. "So, is Jess going to be able to make it for dinner this afternoon?" he asked, all the while staring enigmatically at me.
I shook my head, appearing to be regretful at the "no." My own voice was quiet to cover up the fib. "She has to work in the lab this afternoon."
Nodding automatically, his gaze sharpened again like a hunter in scent range of its prey. Could he see through the lie? My heart pounded, and I decided he must be able to see its racing thump in the flutter of my sweater. He let the moment hold a bit too long—long enough to make me squirm, before responding, "That's a shame."
I nodded, as if in a trance. He knows, I castigated myself; he knows, and he's just toying with you. He knows you're lying, and he gets off on watching you like this, this uncomfortable, wiggling, naughty puppy.
And, deep within my mind, a quiet voice spoke up, the devil's advocate: and you get off on what he's doing to you.
Unable to give that thought any credence, I squelched it back down, but not before the images of dreams, hot and erotic, raced through my mind. I felt my panties grow wet. I prayed desperately that he couldn't smell the scent of my arousal.
He was still staring, waiting for a response, pat though it might be. What had he said? My mind raced until I remembered his last sentence. "Yes," I rushed out, "a shame."
Shortly after that, we went our separate ways for our morning classes. I impatiently stared at the clock, for decades, it seemed, until the morning routine of classes was over.
Not wanting to wait for the mass of people at the elevator to travel before I could go, I raced down the stairs from the fourth floor to the first, almost tripping over my own feet in my haste. His classes had been long over. Coming to a dead stop inside the doorway, I peeked inside.
